The Reckoning

[Axiom142]

So, like many people I have had a bit of extra time on my hands recently and decided to try a bit of this creative writing business. Actually I have been thinking about this for a while now and decided that perhaps I ought to make that first step and put my work out there. Then perhaps that will provide the impetus to actually complete it instead of just thinking about it. Apologies in advance for any spelling, grammar or stylistic errors.

And, I shouldn’t really have to say this bit, but what follows is a work of FICTION, for your entertainment. And mine. You might feel that you can see a resemblance to some people or groups that you may be familiar with, but any such resemblances are purely coincidental. No really!

And, as a work of fiction, it is just that – fiction. NOT a ‘Call to Action’ or a roadmap or a plan that someone else should follow or something that I think SHOULD happen.

Got that? Alrighty then, let’s go…

 

[Axiom142]

Chapter 1 – Exit Plan

Davis was late and on the verge of panic. Twice he almost tripped as he ran headlong down the hill to The Manor. Breathlessly he skidded to a halt and knocked on the door. He endured an agonising wait of at least 30 seconds before security let him into the vestibule. Despite the time pressure, he paused in front of the full-length mirror and checked his appearance. Better to be an additional 10 seconds late than to appear dishevelled. Forcing his breathing to return to normal after the headlong rush to get there, he passed through the hall and climbed the two flights of stairs to the Commander’s apartment and pushed the doorbell. While he waited, he checked his watch – 74 seconds late! He was going to get another punishment detail for this, he realised glumly. Idly he wondered what it would be this time. It was October in Sussex and he felt the chilly waters of the lake beckoning.

To his utter surprise, the door was opened by the Commander himself. He hoped his face didn’t betray the shock he felt. But then he had over a decade of practice in not showing any kind of weakness in front of the leader of his church. His mind raced – where was Ricardo? If the Commander’s major domo was not there, had he been found guilty of some treasonous act and sent to Correction? Would that mean that the Commander was in one of his infamously Bad Moods?

If so He did not show it. He simply said, “Come in and shut the door behind you,” walked over to his desk and sat expectantly. “Report!”

Davis cleared his throat “Sir, preparations in the marquee are complete. The first of the coaches have begun arriving with attendees from all parts of the continent. Registration has been going as expected with around nearly 1,000 already processed. From pre-event confirmations, we expect another 4,000 to arrive in the next 2 hours. Everyone should be in place for the start of the event.”

“Only 5,000 total!” the Commander is indignant. “I thought I told you to hire more extras this year?”

Davis swallows and considers he next words very carefully, “Er, that is with nearly 800 hired extras sir. I’m sorry, but confirmed attendances are down again this year. But we are placing them all in strategic positions, in front of the cameras and given then flags to wave at the, er, appropriate moments. Don’t worry sir, the tent – er marquee will look completely full.”

The Commander gave Davis his trademark steely glare. “And what about the execs – finance, ATC, FMO, Global Management, especially those scum from The Brig?”

Davis stared straight ahead and hoped that his voice wouldn’t betray the fear he felt at having to lie to the one person who controlled every aspect of his life. “Absolutely sir! Every person you ordered is already in place in the marquee.”

“In the front 4 rows, no exceptions?” the Commander growled.

“Yes, yes – of course sir. Just as you specified,” Davis felt himself teetering on the edge of a bottomless void. He was bound to get caught out during his next Interrogation. But, perhaps if the event went well, the Commander might be lenient and just order a one-week temporary assignment to Correction. Damn – where was that boy Delacour? Trust him to be late. He might be one of the rising stars of the Global Finance Division, but if he was not in the front row when the Commander walked onto the stage in just over one and a half hours time, there would be hell to pay!

The Commander nodded and motioned for Davis to leave. It was only after he had shut the door behind him that Davis realised that the expected Severe Reality Adjustment had not been delivered. The Commander must have been pre-occupied with preparations for the event. Mentally breathing an extremely large sigh of relief, Davis hurried up the driveway towards the front entrance to check that the registrations were going smoothly, while trying again to reach Delacour on his cell phone. If he had been paying attention and not so pre-occupied with not angering the Commander, he might have noticed and then wondered why the security guards inside The Manor were dressed in black suits and not the usual faux-naval uniforms of the Galactic Order. And if he had added this to the fact that the Commander’s normally inseparable personal assistant, Ricardo was apparently elsewhere, he might have concluded that something rather unusual was going on.

* * * * *​

The Commander stood by the window in his apartment and surveyed the gardens of The Manor, leading down to the lake. This was the sort of place he deserved to have for his own. Without having to share it with all those mindless sheep who still clung to the memory of The Originator and treated it as a place of pilgrimage. Well, he wouldn’t have to worry about that after tonight, this would be the last time he ever set eyes on it. Over to his right, and a few hundred yards up the hill, he could make out the corner of the enormous marquee, blocking out the fading autumn sun. He thought of all those already sitting in the front rows. Those who had sworn allegiance to him and the power he represented, but who (every one of them!) had betrayed him so treacherously. Well, they would soon be getting their just desserts. His one regret was that his brother and particularly his father, who had slandered him on television, were not there as well. Never mind, plenty of time to deal with them later, he thought grimly. At a time and place of his choosing.

He walked over to his desk and checked the list one more time. Not that he needed to, of course – he had rehearsed every step a hundred times in his mind. Nearly three years of meticulous planning and it all came down to the next – he checked his watch – 91 minutes. He was sure of his own ability to carry it out flawlessly, of course, but could he trust those imbeciles who surrounded him to do what was required of them?

Well, he had planned for that, as well, of course. All the key players had been drilled endlessly, until they could perform the assigned tasks, in their sleep. Which of course they were half the time. Why was he the only one who could ever make things go right? And besides, the key elements of his plan were already in place. He just needed to make sure that the last part went smoothly.

An alert on the bank of monitors in his bedroom attracted his attention. His delivery had arrived. A short man, wearing designer sunglasses, a beanie, bulky jacket, baggy trousers and holding a small package was standing outside. He pressed the door release remote and ushered the man into the foyer of his apartment. Before the door closed and for the benefit of the security guard who had accompanied the man up the stairs, he said, “Thank goodness. My new tie!”

He directed the man into his bedroom, pointed to some very expensive clothes laid out on the bed and said, “Take off your clothes and put these on. Use the tie in your box.”

While the man was complying, he stepped into his bathroom and closed the door. He ripped up the list and dropped the pieces into the toilet. The strong bleach in the bowl immediately began to fade the ink. When he had judged that there was no longer any chance of it being deciphered, even in the most unlikely of scenarios of it being found, he flushed the bowl and watched all the little pieces disappear. He checked that no trace remained, and smiled at the thought that in less than two hours, as far as the world was concerned, no trace of him would remain, either.

When he emerged from his Italian marble and Japanese high-tech toilet equipped bathroom, the man had finished dressing. Wordlessly, he walked round the man surveying every detail. The effect was remarkable. From the bouffant hairstyle, down past the hand-tailored Egyptian cotton shirt, light woollen suit from Saville Row and to the (his!) handmade John Lobb shoes, the man was an almost perfect match.

The man was slightly taller, at around 5’3” and he wasn’t convinced that the plastic surgeon had got the nose exactly right, but even those who knew him well would have trouble distinguishing the two from a distance. And of course, no one who knew him well would get close enough to discover the deception in the time left to them. “The time left to them!” He rolled the phrase around in his head and smiled. He liked the finality of those words.

He glared at the man, “Tell me exactly what you are going to do now.”

“Yes sir!” The man stood to attention, careful not to look directly into His eyes, and recited the words he had learned by heart. “I will wait here until 7:30pm. At which point a car will arrive outside and the driver will notify me via the intercom. I will then walk down to the front of the house and then get into the car. Two of the security guards in the hall downstairs will accompany me in the car. The car will be driven up the driveway, turning left at the castle and park at the rear of the marquee. Upon arriving at the rear of the marquee I will exit the car and make my way directly to the green room as previously rehearsed. I will then wait in the green room until I receive further orders from you, sir.”

“And what will you not do?”

“I will not deviate from this plan, I will not speak to anyone unless it is necessary to carry out the mission and I will not eat or drink anything while in the green room.”

He stared directly into the man’s eyes with the particular intensity he had become so famous for. “This is a very important mission and I have full confidence in your ability to carry it out.”

The man visibly swelled with pride. “Thank you sir, I won’t let you down.”

He then told the man to wait in the foyer while he changed out of his naval uniform, hanging it neatly in his closet and donned the clothing the man has discarded. He suppressed the revulsion he felt at having to wear something previously worn by another (even though he had previously instructed the man to shower twice before coming) but reminded himself that this was just one of the many sacrifices he was having to make.

He picked up the tumbler from the table and took a brief sip of 18 year-old Scotch. Not enough to impair his performance, but enough to leave a DNA footprint (mouthprint?), if anyone should check. And given what was going to happen very soon, he imagined that a lot of checking was going to happen.

His looked at his up his treasured Patek Philippe and briefly considered taking it with him, but decided that now was not the time for sentimentality. Besides if the decoy was seen not wearing it, someone might be suspicious. Nothing should seem out of the ordinary.

He handed the watch to the man, telling him to put it on, before giving him a salute and walking out the door. Annoying, the security guard was overly familiar and asked him if the ‘Big Boss’ liked his ties. He only just remembered in time that he was no longer the Commander of the Bridge, supreme leader of the most powerful new religious movement on the planet and that it would be a good idea not to bawl out the guard for daring to speak to him without permission. So he just shrugged his shoulders non–committedly and continued down the stairs.

Feeling pleased at his ability to think on his feet and deal with the unexpected, he strode confidently out of the front door of the mansion and got into the small Ford, set the Sat Nav to the required destination and drove down the drive towards the rarely-used South entrance. As he approached the gates, they were opened by the hired security. He carefully checked for traffic both ways (now was not the time to have a crash) and turned right. Left would have taken him past the main gates and the incoming guests. Too many people who might have recognised him. Not to mention the security cameras and their facial recognition software!

As he exited the gateway, he glimpsed a rag-tag group walking down the road, holding a couple of placards. Furiously, he realised that these must be some of the protestors his head of security had briefed him about. Psychotic degraded beings! It was a pity they wouldn’t be let into the event. That would serve them right! But in any case, just one more illustration why this planet didn’t deserve him. He contented himself with muttering YSCOHB a few times and felt much better.

His journey, along the carefully chosen route was uneventful. He arrived at his destination and checked the cheap but accurate digital watch purchase especially for this trip. He would have liked to have taken one from his extensive (and very expensive) collection, but couldn’t afford any to be missing and arouse suspicion.

He got out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition and walked towards the train station just a few hundred yards away. He had checked the route carefully and there were no CCTV cameras on the route. Someone would be along in a few minutes to pick up the car and dispose of it. As expected, a line of minicabs were waiting outside the station. He got into the one at the head of the queue and using what he thought was his best English accent, told the driver to go to the nearby regional airport. Now he was just another businessman on his way to an important trip.

The driver dropped him at the VIP terminal and he made his way straight to the desk and presented his ticket. Here he was Mr David Williams, an identity that that had been carefully crafted. A very common name in this part of the world, but not so common as to sound suspicious. Attention to detail! As expected (and paid for handsomely), he was quickly escorted through security, customs and onto the Gulfstream waiting for him.

There were no delays and the plane took off slightly ahead of schedule. He found himself looking forward to that celebratory scotch (he had demanded a bottle of his favourite 18 year-old Macallan be on board), as soon as the plane levelled off. Being the only passenger on board, he could be assured of the best service from the stewardess. Sourly, he noticed that she was taller than him. He hated that, even though it was all too common. He made a mental note to only employ servants shorter than him at his new residences.

As the plane climbed, he looked at the flightpath overlaid on the map on the screen in front of him and realised that the route would take him very close to his recent departure point. In fact, just down there, that immense island of light - surely that was the marquee and castle? Yes, he could make out the logo of the PAT marked out by a thousand lights set on the roof of the castle. He sat back in his chair and felt a little sad? These rallies, with him the centre of attention. All those thousands, the wealthy and the famous and the blindly devoted hanging on His every word. Vying with each other to show the most rapturous appreciation and applaud the loudest. He imagined them as insects way below him, inconsequential but necessary, like drones in a hive. But now they had served their purpose and he was on his way to a new life and to fulfil a new destiny.

He wondered if he would be able to see it happen. But no, still another 28 minutes to go. They would be over the sea by then, well on their way to Spain. He briefly toyed with the idea of asking the pilot to circle around (imagine actually witnessing it instead of just catching the aftermath on CNN) but decided against it. That would be too suspicious and besides he couldn’t risk being trapped if the local airspace was closed.

So instead he settled back in his chair, switched on the TV and patiently waited. He amused himself by trying to guess how long it would take for the news channels to break the story. Let’s see – it would happen in, what 26 minutes from now. There would be an initial period of shock and confusion, then emergency services would be alerted. Probably take them a good 15 mins to realise the scale of what had happened, call for more resources, first locally and then from all over the area. Almost certainly draft in ambulance, fire and police from central London. So perhaps another 30 mins. He finally settled on 1 hour and 13 minutes from now. He liked the precision of that number.

90 minutes later he was starting to get worried. Had something gone wrong? Surely not – there was double redundancy build in, he had demanded that and checked the specifications of the equipment very carefully. If there was a problem with the timing mechanisms, then everything was lost. He landed in Spain (another quiet regional airport) and after speeding through customs, is dismayed to see news feeds on TV screens and nothing out of the ordinary mentioned. An assistant greets him and tells him that His car is waiting outside, but he tells him to shup up while he furiously considers his options. He announces that he wants a coffee and has the assistant find a table at the small coffee shop next to the entrance of the airport. He forces himself to remain calm despite the rising panic.

What are his options? He can just get in the car and carry on to the final destination, but if his does so, his plan is completely broken. His deception will very soon be discovered, along with some very incriminating evidence at Hopes Hill. The complete failure of such a huge event and the fact that he has gone AWOL will cause a lot of people to ask some very searching questions. It will only take Syrma a few days to realise that there is a lot of money missing and while he might be able to contain it for a few weeks from his new base he cannot stop them indefinitely.

But more importantly, someone is bound to open the chests distributed throughout the marquee and even the most stupid is going realise that they do not contain books and CDs and course packs. And then, despite the inherent reluctance to contact the authorities, someone will panic and call the police.

He could just get back on the plane and return. And do what? Just say that he got lost for a few hours and by the way who the fuck is that imposter wearing my clothes? No, impossible. He cannot delay his exit plan. With a sickening realisation, he knows that his only choice is to carry on and manage it on the fly. He can find a new base, keep moving, stay one step ahead of those who will be looking for him.

“Shit fucking plan!” He realises that he said this out loud and glares at the quizzical faces now staring at him.

And just then, a red banner appeared at the bottom of the screen, and scrolled across: “BREAKING NEWS…”

* * *​

To be continued...

 

[HelluvaHoax!]

So, like many people I have had a bit of extra time on my hands recently and decided to try a bit of this creative writing business. Actually I have been thinking about this for a while now and decided that perhaps I ought to make that first step and put my work out there. Then perhaps that will provide the impetus to actually complete it instead of just thinking about it. Apologies in advance for any spelling, grammar or stylistic errors.

And, I shouldn’t really have to say this bit, but what follows is a work of FICTION, for your entertainment. And mine. You might feel that you can see a resemblance to some people or groups that you may be familiar with, but any such resemblances are purely coincidental. No really!

And, as a work of fiction, it is just that – fiction. NOT a ‘Call to Action’ or a roadmap or a plan that someone else should follow or something that I think SHOULD happen.

Got that? Alrighty then, let’s go…

Sir Ax, so cool to see you returning with the exciting announcement that you have turned your considerable creative skills to writing!

Wishing you may encounter many new and unexpected treasures on this new journey you have embarked upon!

.

 

[Axiom142]

Sir Ax, so cool to see you returning with the exciting announcement that you have turned your considerable creative skills to writing!

Wishing you may encounter many new and unexpected treasures on this new journey you have embarked upon!

.

Thank you for your kind words, HH.

I hope to be adding new chapters in the coming weeks.

Ax

 

[PirateAndBum]

 

[Axiom142]

Chapter 2 – Forged in Hell’s Inferno

“Putain de merde!” yelled Michel Delacour and slammed his hand into the dashboard of the car that was stubbornly refusing to restart.

No dashboard warning lights, no display of any kind, nothing. With a sinking feeling Delacour realised that the situation, as far as this particular piece of French automotive machinery was concerned, was terminal. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Forty-five, no now 44 minutes! Why had he made the trip to Birmingham to see that stupid lawyer, today of all days? He had made up good time on the dash back after being stuck in the roadworks on the M1, but on the final leg, just as he felt that he would arrive in good time, the car suddenly coasted to a halt and here he was, on the side of a country lane, miles from his destination.

The Commander had been very clear. He was to be sitting in the front row of the Grand Marquee at the 26th annual gathering of the Planetary Association of Transformationists a full one hour prior to the start, along with all the other senior executives. No exceptions. Of course, none of them really needed to be there so early, it was just another one of The Commander’s techniques for ensuring that everyone one else knew their place. Which was to say, completely and utterly subservient to Him. Even the two stripes on Delacour’s sleeves would count for nothing if The Commander decided that he had transgressed in some way.

But he was still nearly 10 miles away. No way he could make it there on foot in time, and thanks to the notoriously bad mobile reception here in this part of rural Sussex, he couldn’t even call for one of his staff at Hopes Hill to come and pick him up. There was nothing for it - he would have to hitch a ride like some common hobo. But after 10 minutes of fruitlessly trying to flag down a lift, he decided that the English were totally selfish, arrogant and uncaring to a traveller’s plight. He preferred to get angry than give in to the rising panic at the thought of being completely and very noticeably late.

“No!” he told himself. He would rise above the situation and bend the universe to his will and, ‘Make it go right.’ Remembering one of The Originator’s lectures where He talked about ‘The Seniority of the Will’, Delacour announced to the world, “I am powerful. I can command the very elements! Someone will stop and convey me to my destination!” But after shouting this at the top of his voice some 40 or 50 times (and getting some very strange looks from passing motorists), he was starting to believe that his postulates were not going to stick on this particular day.

Then, just as he was resigning himself to spending the next year or two in Correction (or even in The Brig!), a tatty VW Beetle skidded to a halt beside him. And a very suntanned, young man in a vest and backwards baseball hat said, “G’day mate. Need a lift?”

So, with just 5 mins to spare, he arrived outside the main entrance to The Base at Hopes Hill, flashed his security card at the guards and instructed his saviour to drive on the wrong side of the road, past the queuing traffic down to the castle. Thanking him profusely and pressing a £20 note into his outstretched hand in lieu of a handshake, he leapt out of the car, rushed up the steps of the courtyard, pushed his way past milling public, ran through the castle reception, out the doors on other side, across the lawn, vaulted the fence into the field and ran the length of the giant marquee, ducked into the emergency exit at the far end and flopped down into the vacant chair just a few feet from the front of the stage.

“Cutting it rather close, old chap,” drawled Rawlinson to his left. But he didn’t care, he had made it. This was going to be a good day, after all.

* * *​

More than two hours later he was still in his seat and like most of the 5,000 or so others in the marquee, was wondering when the event was going to start. In the past, it was usual for the event to commence perhaps 15 mins after the scheduled start time as there was always a steady trickle of late arrivals. Not so very surprising that a few would be late given that not only would guests be travelling from all over the UK, but also from Europe and the USA, and even from far-flung countries such as Australia and more recently, Taiwan. But, in the last few years, The Commander had decided that nothing should delay His grand entrance. The doors closed at 7:55 pm, and anyone arriving later would have to watch the event on one of the many TV screens dotted around the castle or the overflow tents. Even when Hollywood A-lister Trent Cranston’s helicopter had been delayed three years earlier, he had to watch the first half hour in the overflow and was only allowed into the main marquee during the first pre-recorded video segment while The Commander was consulting his notes. Rumour had it, he even had to personally apologise to The Commander.

But it was now nearly 9:10pm and they were still waiting for the lights to dim and the ridiculously overblown and very loud music that presaged His arrival onto the stage. Concerning as this may have been, Delacour realised that there was an even more pressing problem that he would have to deal with very soon. The egg salad sandwich he had wolfed down at the service station at lunch was making itself known again. Desperately Delacour considered his options. He could wait for the event to start and then sit through the entire three hours or so and risk a very embarrassing event of his own, or he could quietly make his way out of the exit some 30 metres to his right and then across to the portaloos he had spotted on his way into the marquee and hope that he would be back in position by the time The Commander made his entrance. Then suddenly he realised that in fact, he only had one option and he bolted for the exit.

The next 10 minutes were agony for him. For two reasons. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the fear that any second the music would start and that he would have at most 30 seconds to get back to his seat or the spasms that rocked his lower abdomen. Finally, it finally felt like he was done and he gratefully started to finish up. Thankfully the music still hadn’t start-

* * *
​

For what seemed like an age, his memories didn’t make sense. There was searing light and dark and cold and incredible heat and pain and something crushing him. Wet on his face and very bright lights and more pain. And all the while there was this terrible roaring. It was only several weeks later in hospital that he started to make sense of it all. Or at least, as much sense as anyone could make of something like that.

At first he couldn’t or perhaps didn’t want to accept it. But gradually the new reality forced itself into his very core. Confined for long hours in bed in the rented bedsit the Red Cross had provided for him after he had been deemed well enough to leave hospital, he spent hour after hour staring across the gloomy Winter countryside, filled with despair at the loss of all his dreams and even his purpose in life.

But gradually, his mood changed. He re-read the books that had guided him throughout his life. He recalled the trials and tribulations that The Originator had faced in his own life – serving in a brutal war and sustaining crippling injuries which caused his own family to disown him, almost dying on that operating table, suffering ridicule, abuse and treachery while working selflessly for the good of mankind. And then rising above it all, learning the True Secrets of this universe and by his own efforts alone attaining The True Path. Delacour would follow where The Originator had lead. He now understood that he had a Very Important Job to do. He resolved at that point that he would be reborn. He had been tested and found wanting. Well that was all past. He would become a man of iron will, relentless and impervious to pain, emotion or distractions of any kind. Any obstacles in his path would be moved or destroyed. Any person getting in his way would meet a similar fate. Nothing was going to stop him.

But most of all he would be remorseless and without mercy.

* * *​

 

[Zertel]

Chapter 2 – Forged in Hell’s Inferno

“Putain de merde!” yelled Michel Delacour and slammed his hand into the dashboard of the car that was stubbornly refusing to restart.

No dashboard warning lights, no display of any kind, nothing. With a sinking feeling Delacour realised that the situation, as far as this particular piece of French automotive machinery was concerned, was terminal. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. Forty-five, no now 44 minutes! Why had he made the trip to Birmingham to see that stupid lawyer, today of all days? He had made up good time on the dash back after being stuck in the roadworks on the M1, but on the final leg, just as he felt that he would arrive in good time, the car suddenly coasted to a halt and here he was, on the side of a country lane, miles from his destination.

The Commander had been very clear. He was to be sitting in the front row of the Grand Marquee at the 26th annual gathering of the Planetary Association of Transformationists a full one hour prior to the start, along with all the other senior executives. No exceptions. Of course, none of them really needed to be there so early, it was just another one of The Commander’s techniques for ensuring that everyone one else knew their place. Which was to say, completely and utterly subservient to Him. Even the two stripes on Delacour’s sleeves would count for nothing if The Commander decided that he had transgressed in some way.

But he was still nearly 10 miles away. No way he could make it there on foot in time, and thanks to the notoriously bad mobile reception here in this part of rural Sussex, he couldn’t even call for one of his staff at Hopes Hill to come and pick him up. There was nothing for it - he would have to hitch a ride like some common hobo. But after 10 minutes of fruitlessly trying to flag down a lift, he decided that the English were totally selfish, arrogant and uncaring to a traveller’s plight. He preferred to get angry than give in to the rising panic at the thought of being completely and very noticeably late.

“No!” he told himself. He would rise above the situation and bend the universe to his will and, ‘Make it go right.’ Remembering one of The Originator’s lectures where He talked about ‘The Seniority of the Will’, Delacour announced to the world, “I am powerful. I can command the very elements! Someone will stop and convey me to my destination!” But after shouting this at the top of his voice some 40 or 50 times (and getting some very strange looks from passing motorists), he was starting to believe that his postulates were not going to stick on this particular day.

Then, just as he was resigning himself to spending the next year or two in Correction (or even in The Brig!), a tatty VW Beetle skidded to a halt beside him. And a very suntanned, young man in a vest and backwards baseball hat said, “G’day mate. Need a lift?”

So, with just 5 mins to spare, he arrived outside the main entrance to The Base at Hopes Hill, flashed his security card at the guards and instructed his saviour to drive on the wrong side of the road, past the queuing traffic down to the castle. Thanking him profusely and pressing a £20 note into his outstretched hand in lieu of a handshake, he leapt out of the car, rushed up the steps of the courtyard, pushed his way past milling public, ran through the castle reception, out the doors on other side, across the lawn, vaulted the fence into the field and ran the length of the giant marquee, ducked into the emergency exit at the far end and flopped down into the vacant chair just a few feet from the front of the stage.

“Cutting it rather close, old chap,” drawled Rawlinson to his left. But he didn’t care, he had made it. This was going to be a good day, after all.

* * *​

More than two hours later he was still in his seat and like most of the 5,000 or so others in the marquee, was wondering when the event was going to start. In the past, it was usual for the event to commence perhaps 15 mins after the scheduled start time as there was always a steady trickle of late arrivals. Not so very surprising that a few would be late given that not only would guests be travelling from all over the UK, but also from Europe and the USA, and even from far-flung countries such as Australia and more recently, Taiwan. But, in the last few years, The Commander had decided that nothing should delay His grand entrance. The doors closed at 7:55 pm, and anyone arriving later would have to watch the event on one of the many TV screens dotted around the castle or the overflow tents. Even when Hollywood A-lister Trent Cranston’s helicopter had been delayed three years earlier, he had to watch the first half hour in the overflow and was only allowed into the main marquee during the first pre-recorded video segment while The Commander was consulting his notes. Rumour had it, he even had to personally apologise to The Commander.

But it was now nearly 9:10pm and they were still waiting for the lights to dim and the ridiculously overblown and very loud music that presaged His arrival onto the stage. Concerning as this may have been, Delacour realised that there was an even more pressing problem that he would have to deal with very soon. The egg salad sandwich he had wolfed down at the service station at lunch was making itself known again. Desperately Delacour considered his options. He could wait for the event to start and then sit through the entire three hours or so and risk a very embarrassing event of his own, or he could quietly make his way out of the exit some 30 metres to his right and then across to the portaloos he had spotted on his way into the marquee and hope that he would be back in position by the time The Commander made his entrance. Then suddenly he realised that in fact, he only had one option and he bolted for the exit.

The next 10 minutes were agony for him. For two reasons. He couldn’t decide which was worse, the fear that any second the music would start and that he would have at most 30 seconds to get back to his seat or the spasms that rocked his lower abdomen. Finally, it finally felt like he was done and he gratefully started to finish up. Thankfully the music still hadn’t start-

* * *
​

For what seemed like an age, his memories didn’t make sense. There was searing light and dark and cold and incredible heat and pain and something crushing him. Wet on his face and very bright lights and more pain. And all the while there was this terrible roaring. It was only several weeks later in hospital that he started to make sense of it all. Or at least, as much sense as anyone could make of something like that.

At first he couldn’t or perhaps didn’t want to accept it. But gradually the new reality forced itself into his very core. Confined for long hours in bed in the rented bedsit the Red Cross had provided for him after he had been deemed well enough to leave hospital, he spent hour after hour staring across the gloomy Winter countryside, filled with despair at the loss of all his dreams and even his purpose in life.

But gradually, his mood changed. He re-read the books that had guided him throughout his life. He recalled the trials and tribulations that The Originator had faced in his own life – serving in a brutal war and sustaining crippling injuries which caused his own family to disown him, almost dying on that operating table, suffering ridicule, abuse and treachery while working selflessly for the good of mankind. And then rising above it all, learning the True Secrets of this universe and by his own efforts alone attaining The True Path. Delacour would follow where The Originator had lead. He now understood that he had a Very Important Job to do. He resolved at that point that he would be reborn. He had been tested and found wanting. Well that was all past. He would become a man of iron will, relentless and impervious to pain, emotion or distractions of any kind. Any obstacles in his path would be moved or destroyed. Any person getting in his way would meet a similar fate. Nothing was going to stop him.

But most of all he would be remorseless and without mercy.

* * *​

". . . searing light and dark and cold . . ." etc. followed by weeks of rehabilitation? That doesn't make any sense and leaves me mystified and making guesses about what happened. Needs an explanation.

 

[Axiom142]

". . . searing light and dark and cold . . ." etc. followed by weeks of rehabilitation? That doesn't make any sense and leaves me mystified and making guesses about what happened. Needs an explanation.

Yup, it's a mystery and no mistake.

I guess you will just have to tune in to next weeks' episode.

Ax

 

[Zertel]

Yup, it's a mystery and no mistake.

I guess you will just have to tune in to next weeks' episode.

Ax

Okay. It was a constructive criticism. A few years ago a friend was writing a local history book and as he completed each chapter I did some editing, mostly pointing out some passages I thought were confusing. Sometimes he agreed and sometimes not. Also a few years ago someone on Rinder's blog was writing a scn story and published a chapter weekly and he welcomed constructive criticism. The basic story line was that a newbie Scientologist was twinning on the purif with an obese middle aged woman at a Mission. He stepped out of the sauna to get a drink or something and when he returned she was dead on the floor! Foul play was suspected and the CofS was trying to pin it on him - lol

The author ended most chapters on a cliffhanger which was resolved in the following chapter so it was fun to follow along. You ended the first chapter with a cliffhanger and the second has a mystery. Too many literary devices might make the story a bit tedious but we'll see how it goes. Cheers!

P.S. A transitional phrase might alert the reader that an unexplained mystery is entering the story and explain or justify the abrupt jump in the timeline. "As he sat waiting for the final minutes to expire before the start of the event strange and mysterious sensations began to overtake him." etc.

 

[PirateAndBum]

He done got blown up, no mysterious sensations...

 

[Axiom142]

He done got blown up, no mysterious sensations...

Shhhh! Don't give the plot away!

Ax

 

[Axiom142]

Okay. It was a constructive criticism. A few years ago a friend was writing a local history book and as he completed each chapter I did some editing, mostly pointing out some passages I thought were confusing. Sometimes he agreed and sometimes not. Also a few years ago someone on Rinder's blog was writing a scn story and published a chapter weekly and he welcomed constructive criticism. The basic story line was that a newbie Scientologist was twinning on the purif with an obese middle aged woman at a Mission. He stepped out of the sauna to get a drink or something and when he returned she was dead on the floor! Foul play was suspected and the CofS was trying to pin it on him - lol

The author ended most chapters on a cliffhanger which was resolved in the following chapter so it was fun to follow along. You ended the first chapter with a cliffhanger and the second has a mystery. Too many literary devices might make the story a bit tedious but we'll see how it goes. Cheers!

P.S. A transitional phrase might alert the reader that an unexplained mystery is entering the story and explain or justify the abrupt jump in the timeline. "As he sat waiting for the final minutes to expire before the start of the event strange and mysterious sensations began to overtake him." etc.

Hi Zertel,

Thank you for taking the time to read my story and providing feedback. It is much appreciated.

To answer your original point re the mystery, hopefully this will become clear in the next chapter (currently being written). And, even more hopefully the whole point of the story and why I chose to post it here will become clear sometime in the coming weeks.

Yes, I am aware that there may be narrative flaws or inconsistencies. There are several reasons for this:

1. I didn’t necessarily want to write a ‘standard’ narrative. Perhaps I was unconsciously hoping that if I wrote it in the style of an episodic Crime Thriller TV series (lots of cliff hangers, mysterious events and characters etc), it might get picked up by Netflix as The Next Big Thing. LoL (Not really)

2. Ordinarily I would write the whole thing and then revisit multiples times, polishing and rearranging until I was completely happy with the results. The flaw in this approach being that I would probably never have actually got around to ‘publishing’ it as I always seem to find flaws or things that should be changed. I have been mentally kicking around this particular story for several years now. What started as a short story inspired by a particular discussion on Scientology and born from a simple ‘What if…?’ question, became more and more complex as I looked at the actions and motivations of those involved.

The more I wrote, the more material came to mind and demanded to be included. Finally, I realised that I should just commit something and then work from there, otherwise the story would never be told. So, although the basic plot has been sketched out, most of the actual writing still remains.

3. This is my first proper attempt at writing a serious story on this subject (I previous wrote a humorous short story on ESMB 1, but wasn’t happy with the results so had a rethink of my approach). One thing professional writers (mostly) agree on, is that if you want to be any good as a writer, you need to write and write and write. So that is what I am doing, even if the results are not as good as I would like. But hey, you have to start somewhere?

Ax

 

[Zertel]

Hi Zertel,

Thank you for taking the time to read my story and providing feedback. It is much appreciated.

To answer your original point re the mystery, hopefully this will become clear in the next chapter (currently being written). And, even more hopefully the whole point of the story and why I chose to post it here will become clear sometime in the coming weeks.

Yes, I am aware that there may be narrative flaws or inconsistencies. There are several reasons for this:

1. I didn’t necessarily want to write a ‘standard’ narrative. Perhaps I was unconsciously hoping that if I wrote it in the style of an episodic Crime Thriller TV series (lots of cliff hangers, mysterious events and characters etc), it might get picked up by Netflix as The Next Big Thing. LoL (Not really)

2. Ordinarily I would write the whole thing and then revisit multiples times, polishing and rearranging until I was completely happy with the results. The flaw in this approach being that I would probably never have actually got around to ‘publishing’ it as I always seem to find flaws or things that should be changed. I have been mentally kicking around this particular story for several years now. What started as a short story inspired by a particular discussion on Scientology and born from a simple ‘What if…?’ question, became more and more complex as I looked at the actions and motivations of those involved.

The more I wrote, the more material came to mind and demanded to be included. Finally, I realised that I should just commit something and then work from there, otherwise the story would never be told. So, although the basic plot has been sketched out, most of the actual writing still remains.

3. This is my first proper attempt at writing a serious story on this subject (I previous wrote a humorous short story on ESMB 1, but wasn’t happy with the results so had a rethink of my approach). One thing professional writers (mostly) agree on, is that if you want to be any good as a writer, you need to write and write and write. So that is what I am doing, even if the results are not as good as I would like. But hey, you have to start somewhere?

Ax

Hi Ax - You're doing great! Keep going! Not everyone can sit down and write a story and have the sentences come together and make sense which is what you are doing. I revised my reply to you about four times before it came close to "saying" what I was thinking.

All writers need an editor and there will be plenty of time for that later. Don't take my previous constructive criticism too seriously. Many people enjoy reading stories with twists and turns as in detective and crime stories. It's not my favorite genre but "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" with its short stories and novelettes is one of my favorites. Your overall story might lend itself to that style.

I'm looking forward to your next installment - hurry up.

P.S. I was tempted to revise my comment above. For example, "format" might be a better word than "style", but I decided screw it - it's good enough. haha

 

[Axiom142]

Chapter 3 – 20/10

From Wikipedia entry:

Hopes Hill Attack

The Hopes Hill attack, also commonly referred to as 20/10 was a terrorist attack carried out against the Church of Transformation (CoT) at their Hopes Hill Manor estate on the evening of Friday 20th October 2023. Claiming some 2,278 lives and at least 2,400 injured, this remains the deadliest terrorist attack in UK history.


Background

The Planetary Association of Transformationists (PAT) was an umbrella organization with the stated aim of ‘uniting and protecting the members and purposes of the Church of Transformation’ (CoT). Each year the PAT would traditionally hold The PAT Foundation Anniversary Event at the UK headquarters of the CoT at the Hopes Hill Manor estate, near the Sussex town of West Hillstead. Due to the large number of guests, the actual event would be held in a large marquee located in a field next to the main training and servicing building of the CoT, the Hopes Hill castle.

Guests would typically travel from many countries from around the world, with the majority from the UK, USA, Germany, France and Italy, but also from Russia, Canada and Taiwan. Guests would include several high-profile celebrity members of the CoT, high level donors to the CoT, lower-level members as well as CoT executives.


Attack

During the evening of the 20th October 2023, around 5,000 guests and staff had gathered in or around the main marquee, with the event due to start at 20:00. At 21:18 a massive explosion occurred, resulting in the loss of at least 2,278 lives and many more injured. Subsequent investigations revealed that up to 60 containers containing explosive devices consisting of ammonium nitrate, phosphorus and fuel oil, augmented with ball bearings, nails and other objects were placed at strategic points around and under the floor of the main marquee with the aim to cause as much loss of life as possible to those attending the event.

The initial explosion caused debris from the marquee as well as human remains and body parts to be thrown up to 400m from the epicentre. This was followed by a large and very intense fireball which engulfed the seat of the explosion and ultimately caused the destruction of virtually the entire marque. A crater measuring approximately 40m in diameter and 4m deep was left in the field. Severe damage was also caused to the nearby castle building with most of the windows broken and around 25% of the structure damaged by fires started by flaming debris.

Local police, fire and ambulance services were alerted very soon after the explosion and units were dispatched from all over Sussex. Central control soon realised the massive scale of the casualties and additional units, from neighbouring Surrey, Kent and London were called to attend. Local hospitals were quickly overwhelmed with the injured and ambulances and helicopters transported casualties to trauma centres across the whole of the South East of England. Injuries ranged from loss of limbs and large area burns to hearing loss from burst ear drums.

The explosion was so powerful that it was heard in central London, some 24 miles away and prompted a security alert at the Palace of Westminster (UK Parliament) and the evacuation of a session of the House of Commons. Windows were broken in the village of Hopes Hill approximately 1 mile from the epicentre and Gatwick airport some 8 miles to the West was closed until 12:00 the next day as a precaution.


Aftermath

On Sat 24th October, the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson expressed his ‘profound shock and grief that such an atrocity could have been committed on British soil.’ He also said that ‘No stone will be left unturned in the hunt for the culprits. And the entire nation stands shoulder to shoulder with the members of the Church of Transformalists.’ [sic] Some commentators noted that Johnson had previously been critical of the CoT, referring to them as ‘that loony space-opera cult.’

Most media outlets expressed sympathy for the members of the CoT, with the exception of The Daily Mail which noted that ‘The Cult of Transformers has often been linked to illegal migrants being brought into the UK to serve as slave labour. This policy has appeared to backfire in rather spectacular fashion.’ The newspaper was later forced to apologise after a backlash.

Immediately afterwards, several musicians including Beck and rapper PDH began fundraising for the victims and families of victims, eventually releasing a ‘theme’ album entitled ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Star Road’. In addition, around $50 million was raised from donations around the world from sympathetic members of the public, most of whom had no connection with The CoT.

Also, killed were several high-profile actors and other celebrities and many high net worth members. In recent years the CoT had relied on these particular members heavily for funding. In addition, most of their senior management were killed and as a result, the CoT collapsed with several factions attempting to take control of the assets. The resulting fallout and legal battles left the organization in a precarious financial situation and most of the centres around the world were forced to close.


Investigations

Due to the high number of American citizens killed and injured, the FBI was invited to join a joint Hopes Hill task force with The National Counter Terrorism Security Office (NaCTSO). Investigation are on-going and just one suspect has been named officially. This is Mark Hunter, a senior executive in The CoT, who allegedly went missing a few days prior to the attack.

Because of the style, scale and method of the attack, some media organizations speculated that a known bomb maker, Abu Nazir Al Magrehdi, was involved. However, his body was later found in Southern Spain, on October 24th, just 4 days after the attack, in a burnt-out van in a quarry and thus could not be questioned. Investigators have refused to confirm or deny if he was suspected to have been involved.

The task force has interviewed over 3,000 witnesses and ‘persons of interest’ but no one was held for more than a few days and no one has been charged in connection with the attack.

A large forensic investigation has been ongoing since the attack to attempt to identify all the victims. This has proven to be very difficult as many of the victims were severely burnt or else only fragments of body parts could be found. So far, around 1,500 victims have been positively identified.


Motives

As yet, investigators have yet to establish a clear motive for this attack other than that it effectively wiped out the leadership of the CoT, including the head, Damien Mankiewicz, and lead to the almost total collapse of the CoT.

In addition, a large amount of money was reputed to have gone missing prior to the attack (some sources put this amount as high as $1 Billion), but the exact amount and where this money may have gone has yet to be established.

Several previously known terrorist groups subsequently claimed responsibility for this attack, but none were deemed credible.

A group claiming to be an off shoot of the CoT, The True Officers, posted on various internet forums that they had carried out the attacks in order ‘to restore the CoT to The True Path’, but no one has been identified as belonging to this group or even if it actually exists.


Casualties

Total fatalities are officially estimated at 2,278, based on registration cards of guest, numbers of CoT staff members and other workers missing etc.

Around 2,100 died at the scene of the initial explosion and around 180 died of their injuries in hospital or afterwards.

Due to the fact that the CoT was known to employ a number of unregistered workers both inside the organization and also at events such as these, the true number of deaths is unlikely to ever be known for certain.

Notable victims include actors Trent Cranston, Elise Moore, Georgio Rabotini and Gemma Altman.


Memorials

In October 2030 a Hopes Hill Memorial Garden was opened by His Majesty King Philip and is located approximately 1 mile from the location of the explosion. 2,278 stainless steel pillars, each inscribed with the name of one of the victims (where known) were installed in the garden.

In addition, a wind phone was installed, modelled on a telephone booth in Ōtsuchi, Iwate Prefecture, Japan, where visitors can hold one-way conversations with deceased loved ones.

* * *​

 

[Chuck J.]

"The True Officers"

 

[Zertel]

Chapter 3 – 20/10

From Wikipedia entry:

Hopes Hill Attack

The Hopes Hill attack, also commonly referred to as 20/10 was a terrorist attack carried out against the Church of Transformation (CoT) at their Hopes Hill Manor estate on the evening of Friday 20th October 2023. Claiming some 2,278 lives and at least 2,400 injured, this remains the deadliest terrorist attack in UK history.


Background

The Planetary Association of Transformationists (PAT) was an umbrella organization with the stated aim of ‘uniting and protecting the members and purposes of the Church of Transformation’ (CoT). Each year the PAT would traditionally hold The PAT Foundation Anniversary Event at the UK headquarters of the CoT at the Hopes Hill Manor estate, near the Sussex town of West Hillstead. Due to the large number of guests, the actual event would be held in a large marquee located in a field next to the main training and servicing building of the CoT, the Hopes Hill castle.

Guests would typically travel from many countries from around the world, with the majority from the UK, USA, Germany, France and Italy, but also from Russia, Canada and Taiwan. Guests would include several high-profile celebrity members of the CoT, high level donors to the CoT, lower-level members as well as CoT executives.


Attack

During the evening of the 20th October 2023, around 5,000 guests and staff had gathered in or around the main marquee, with the event due to start at 20:00. At 21:18 a massive explosion occurred, resulting in the loss of at least 2,278 lives and many more injured. Subsequent investigations revealed that up to 60 containers containing explosive devices consisting of ammonium nitrate, phosphorus and fuel oil, augmented with ball bearings, nails and other objects were placed at strategic points around and under the floor of the main marquee with the aim to cause as much loss of life as possible to those attending the event.

The initial explosion caused debris from the marquee as well as human remains and body parts to be thrown up to 400m from the epicentre. This was followed by a large and very intense fireball which engulfed the seat of the explosion and ultimately caused the destruction of virtually the entire marque. A crater measuring approximately 40m in diameter and 4m deep was left in the field. Severe damage was also caused to the nearby castle building with most of the windows broken and around 25% of the structure damaged by fires started by flaming debris.

Local police, fire and ambulance services were alerted very soon after the explosion and units were dispatched from all over Sussex. Central control soon realised the massive scale of the casualties and additional units, from neighbouring Surrey, Kent and London were called to attend. Local hospitals were quickly overwhelmed with the injured and ambulances and helicopters transported casualties to trauma centres across the whole of the South East of England. Injuries ranged from loss of limbs and large area burns to hearing loss from burst ear drums.

The explosion was so powerful that it was heard in central London, some 24 miles away and prompted a security alert at the Palace of Westminster (UK Parliament) and the evacuation of a session of the House of Commons. Windows were broken in the village of Hopes Hill approximately 1 mile from the epicentre and Gatwick airport some 8 miles to the West was closed until 12:00 the next day as a precaution.


Aftermath

On Sat 24th October, the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson expressed his ‘profound shock and grief that such an atrocity could have been committed on British soil.’ He also said that ‘No stone will be left unturned in the hunt for the culprits. And the entire nation stands shoulder to shoulder with the members of the Church of Transformalists.’ [sic] Some commentators noted that Johnson had previously been critical of the CoT, referring to them as ‘that loony space-opera cult.’

Most media outlets expressed sympathy for the members of the CoT, with the exception of The Daily Mail which noted that ‘The Cult of Transformers has often been linked to illegal migrants being brought into the UK to serve as slave labour. This policy has appeared to backfire in rather spectacular fashion.’ The newspaper was later forced to apologise after a backlash.

Immediately afterwards, several musicians including Beck and rapper PDH began fundraising for the victims and families of victims, eventually releasing a ‘theme’ album entitled ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Star Road’. In addition, around $50 million was raised from donations around the world from sympathetic members of the public, most of whom had no connection with The CoT.

Also, killed were several high-profile actors and other celebrities and many high net worth members. In recent years the CoT had relied on these particular members heavily for funding. In addition, most of their senior management were killed and as a result, the CoT collapsed with several factions attempting to take control of the assets. The resulting fallout and legal battles left the organization in a precarious financial situation and most of the centres around the world were forced to close.


Investigations

Due to the high number of American citizens killed and injured, the FBI was invited to join a joint Hopes Hill task force with The National Counter Terrorism Security Office (NaCTSO). Investigation are on-going and just one suspect has been named officially. This is Mark Hunter, a senior executive in The CoT, who allegedly went missing a few days prior to the attack.

Because of the style, scale and method of the attack, some media organizations speculated that a known bomb maker, Abu Nazir Al Magrehdi, was involved. However, his body was later found in Southern Spain, on October 24th, just 4 days after the attack, in a burnt-out van in a quarry and thus could not be questioned. Investigators have refused to confirm or deny if he was suspected to have been involved.

The task force has interviewed over 3,000 witnesses and ‘persons of interest’ but no one was held for more than a few days and no one has been charged in connection with the attack.

A large forensic investigation has been ongoing since the attack to attempt to identify all the victims. This has proven to be very difficult as many of the victims were severely burnt or else only fragments of body parts could be found. So far, around 1,500 victims have been positively identified.


Motives

As yet, investigators have yet to establish a clear motive for this attack other than that it effectively wiped out the leadership of the CoT, including the head, Damien Mankiewicz, and lead to the almost total collapse of the CoT.

In addition, a large amount of money was reputed to have gone missing prior to the attack (some sources put this amount as high as $1 Billion), but the exact amount and where this money may have gone has yet to be established.

Several previously known terrorist groups subsequently claimed responsibility for this attack, but none were deemed credible.

A group claiming to be an off shoot of the CoT, The True Officers, posted on various internet forums that they had carried out the attacks in order ‘to restore the CoT to The True Path’, but no one has been identified as belonging to this group or even if it actually exists.


Casualties

Total fatalities are officially estimated at 2,278, based on registration cards of guest, numbers of CoT staff members and other workers missing etc.

Around 2,100 died at the scene of the initial explosion and around 180 died of their injuries in hospital or afterwards.

Due to the fact that the CoT was known to employ a number of unregistered workers both inside the organization and also at events such as these, the true number of deaths is unlikely to ever be known for certain.

Notable victims include actors Trent Cranston, Elise Moore, Georgio Rabotini and Gemma Altman.


Memorials

In October 2030 a Hopes Hill Memorial Garden was opened by His Majesty King Philip and is located approximately 1 mile from the location of the explosion. 2,278 stainless steel pillars, each inscribed with the name of one of the victims (where known) were installed in the garden.

In addition, a wind phone was installed, modelled on a telephone booth in Ōtsuchi, Iwate Prefecture, Japan, where visitors can hold one-way conversations with deceased loved ones.

* * *​

60 containers of explosives were placed around the event and went undetected and exploded simultaneously? Maybe include a theme for the event with potted plants lining the event containing the explosives with sophisticated timers tuned to the atomic clock. Current scns seem to enjoy pirate themes. Lol

 

[Axiom142]

60 containers of explosives were placed around the event and went undetected and exploded simultaneously? Maybe include a theme for the event with potted plants lining the event containing the explosives with sophisticated timers tuned to the atomic clock. Current scns seem to enjoy pirate themes. Lol

Hmmm, that gives me an idea....

 

[Axiom142]

Chapter 5 – A Private Investigation

Cameron Colley was not happy. By all rights he should have been nursing a hangover in bed. But Watkin-Bassett had been most insistent – he absolutely had to be in the office at 12:00 sharp. Left to his own devices, Colley would have probably been the customary hour or two late, but Watkin-Basset had sent a car – his own Jaguar in fact – and practically had him dragged into the West London office.

Usually Watkin-Basset was very ‘hands-off’ and let his best investigator ‘do his own thing’ and tacitly accepted that Colley was not a ‘follow the rules’ type of person. But on this occasion he was unusually direct and forceful. And very explicit. Colley was to meet the clients, say nothing unless asked a direct question and most of all, look very interested and ‘engaged’ (whatever that meant).

Watkin-Bassett had hurriedly briefed him on his arrival in the office. “This is really important, Colley. As you know, the business has taken a bit of a nose-dive over the past few months. This client is BIG. And by that, I mean they are willing and more importantly, able to pay big. Just don’t fuck it up, old chap. We need this job. All of us.”

<Mostly you.> thought Colley, sourly. <Two ex-wives, a daughter in a private school, and a villa in Spain doesn’t come cheap.>

“Anyway,” Watkin-Bassett continued, “They are a bit of a rum lot, no doubt about it – but I know I can rely on your diplomacy.”

Colley couldn’t decide if his boss was joking – Colley was infamous for his abrasive manner and inability to suffer fools.

“This one is going to be a bit hush-hush, even more than usual if you get my meaning. Basically, they are looking for someone and due to the sensitive nature of the, er, situation, don’t want anyone else to know about it. This chap they want to find, made off with a lot of money that doesn’t belong to him. They would like to get it back.”

Colley interrupted, “So why can’t O’Hara take the job? Doesn’t really sound like my sort of thing.”

“Well thing, is old chap, they specifically asked for you. Did I mention that they were prepared to pay big?

“Hmmm,” Colley mused, “specifically asked for me. And just how big is ‘big’?

“Two million – and that’s just the retainer. Plus expenses and a finding bonus of another two million if we find him within the next 6 months.”

“JFC!” Colley exclaimed. “They must really want their money back. Do we know how much went missing?”

“Well, “Watkin-Bassett drawled, “they are being rather coy about the details. Wanted to speak to you directly. Need to know basis and all that. But I did some digging myself. Word is, several hundred million dollars disappeared.

Colley said, “That sounds like a lots of reasons to find this guy. Who are these people anyway?”

“Well, like I said, a bit strange. Some new-age religious cul- er, I mean religion. Definitely do not use the ‘C’ word!”

So here Colley was, sitting in the conference room of Reid, Watkin-Bassett and Associates (Investigations), grim-faced and idly wondering if he walked out of the office and across the road to the Duck & Spoon and ordered his usual steak and chips, whether he would really be missed.

He decided that given the very serious expression Watkin-Basset had on his face earlier, that might be a ‘career-limiting’ move. Fortunately, he didn’t have much longer to mull things over and possibly change his mind, as the door opened and in walked Watkin-Basset, rather obsequiously ushering in six very serious-looking men in suits. Instinctively, Colley assessed them. Him, him and him were clearly lawyers. The two youngest ones were flunkies, probably wouldn’t have much to say. But it was the other one that caused Colley to suppress a shiver.

Here was a youngish man, maybe mid to late twenties, medium height, dark brown hair in a severe cut, possibly foreign (German, French?), and mostly unremarkable. Except for the eyes. From the moment he strode purposefully into the room, those piercing blue eyes were fixed unwavering on Colley. The intensity of that gaze was extremely disturbing. Colley had seen that look before and it always spelled trouble.

The Boss as Colley mentally labelled him, sat at the far end of the table, directly opposite. The two flunkies flanked The Boss and the lawyers took up station along the remaining sides on the table. Watkin-Basset took a seat next to Colley. Six tablets were unfolded onto stands in front of the visitors and switched on. To Colley’s surprise, and without a word of explanation, one of the flunkies walked around the table and placed a wireless microphone between Colley and Watkin-Basset. Colley was puzzled by this until The Boss nodded to the lawyers and as he turned his head, Colley noticed two hearing aids. As well as a long scar on the right side of his face. Voice recognition software transcribing what every participant was saying, was Colley’s guess. And probably not deaf from birth or he would have learned to lip-read.

Lawyer number one passed him a folder and stared speaking. New York accent, probably some fancy Upper East Side law firm. “Let’s get down to business shall we, Mr Colley? In a nutshell, we are looking for the person detailed in the dossier in front of you.”

Before Colley had a chance to respond, lawyer number one continued. “We expect the utmost discretion in this matter. Severe financial penalties apply if you divulge the nature of your investigations. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Colley replied. “But why me?”

Lawyer number two jumped in this time, also a New York accent, but from his manner and dress, Colley concluded that he was more of a tough-no-holds-barred-sue-your-own-grandmother pugilist from Queens. “We asked around and your name came up several times. We want the best.”

The rest of the meeting was rather frustrating for Colley. All of his questions were met with, “The information you require is all in the dossier.” or, “You do not need to know that.”

And all the while, except when he briefly looked down at his tablet screen, The Boss glared at Colley as if trying to bore into his soul. Colley felt as if he was the subject of an inquisition.

After they left, and Watkin-Basset had returned from showing them out, Colley turned to him and said, “I’m out, WB. This gig is serious trouble. That guy - the one in charge - I’ve seen that look before. He’s a fanatic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he is right now planning for the coming apocalypse. And it isn’t just about the money – he wants revenge. What do you think they are going to do that guy when – if, we find him? I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want the cops involved.”

“Sorry old chap,” Watkin-Bassett said in such a way that it was clear that he was not in the least bit sorry, “As I’ve already explained, we need this job. And besides, I’ve already agreed and signed the contract. So be a good chap and start doing the thing that I pay you for.”

* * *​

Back at his flat, Colley reviewed the contents of the dossier. The target was a Mark John Hunter. Born in Milwaukee. Age 62, divorced (twice), parents deceased, only child. Last known employment was as ‘Director of Special Affairs International’, Church of Transformation Inc, head office Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angles. Current residence - unknown.

Lots of photos of him, some wearing a naval-type uniform (WTF?), some in a business suit and even a couple in jeans and t-shirt. Plus lots of personal details – telephone numbers, past addresses, ex-girlfriends, cars owned, previous known associates etc. Strangely, most of the latter were annotated as ‘Deceased’.

Time for a bit of independent research. He fired up his laptop and said, “Google search, Mark Hunter plus Church of Transformation”. Hundreds of hits were returned. He selected the most likely to be helpful and clicked through to an online discussion and support forum. There was a thread discussing this Mark Hunter. Colley knew better than to take everything said here at face value, but after a few minutes scanning through the comments, it was clear that this Hunter person was a real piece of work. It appeared that his main function was to act as chief enforcer for the leader of this so called Church of Transformation, Damien Mankiewicz. The more Colley read, the more this ‘church’ didn’t seem like any church he was familiar with. Why the hell would a church leader need someone to beat up and intimidate people? Sounded more like an organized crime group.

In any case, Hunter had apparently gone AWOL some years before, along with a rather large sum of money. Some contributors had claimed it could be as much as $1Bn, others much less. But even taking a mid-point of the estimates put it around 300 – 400 million USD. There were also several mentions of ‘20/10’. This meant nothing to Colley so he clicked through to an article on Wikipedia. After a couple of minutes of reading he exclaimed, “Holy fucking hell!”. Ten more minutes reading and he got up and poured himself a Scotch. And then another.

Mentally reeling, he asked himself why he didn’t know this shit. He checked the dates again - nearly seven years ago. Then it hit him – just a few weeks before he had been in Panama, tracking down a particularly nasty fugitive with a very large bounty. He’d been close to the mark but then some paid-off cops had manufactured some phoney charges and then he spent the next six months in jail, followed by another four months in hospital recovering from some nasty tropical disease, the name of which eluded him now.

So, ten months when this was all over the news and he was totally out of touch with what was going on in the world. Followed by another year or so of a drunken haze while he ‘recovered’ from his Central American adventure. No wonder he hadn’t recalled the events around this ‘church’. Even more than ever, he didn’t want this case. Should he just walk-out? But he already knew the answer to that. Watkin-Bassett wasn’t the only one with an ex-wife and a daughter.

Colley realised that this investigation was going to be very different to any he had encountered before. He needed a guide, and he knew just where to find one…

* * *​

 

[Axiom142]

Chapter 6 – An Alliance is Made

“Hello Mr Colley, I’m Axel Smith. Obvs.” Smith grinned lopsidedly and extended his hand.

He was taller than Colley expected, maybe six-four. Starting to go grey, perhaps late fifties, affecting an RP accent, but still with a touch of South London. “Call me Cameron,” Colley said.

They sat at a table in the beer garden of the pub chosen by Smith. A waitress brought the drinks that Smith had ordered via the pub’s app. Guinness for Colley and a non-alcoholic cider for Smith.

“So how did you find me?” asked Smith.

“Well as you know, I’m writing an article on the Church of Transformationists and I came across your website for survivors. You seemed like a good person to talk to.”

Smith smiled, “Just that then?”

Colley sensed that the conversation was going to take a wrong turn. “Well, yes.”

Smith’s smile had disappeared and his previously friendly demeanour had taken on a distinctly serious look and his eyes seemed to bore into Colley. Colley had seen a similar look before.

“How about we be completely honest with each other? I find that is best,” said Smith.

This was definitely not what Colley was expecting. “Ummm… ,”

Smith was smiling again, but not quite as friendly this time. “Well firstly, I know that you are not Cameron Colley the academic. And you are not writing an article about the Transformers for a book. You are, in fact Cameron Colley, private investigator. Currently employed by Reid, Watkin- Bassett and Associates. You have been contracted to find a person of interest to the Church of Transformation, along with a rather sizeable sum of money.”

Smith paused to let this sink in and then continued. “However, I understand the reason for your deception and would still like to work with you to our mutual benefit. I propose an alliance. You will find that I have a lot of information that will be very useful to you. In fact, I probably know more about the subject of your investigation than any other person on this planet.” He grinned wryly, “With perhaps just one exception.”

So much for the ‘utmost discretion’, thought Colley. Clearly he had totally misjudged Smith. He was not just some needy cult survivor still obsessed with the cult he claimed to have left behind. And how the hell did this Smith find out so much about him?

“Alright,” said Colley, “I’m not agreeing to anything just yet, but let’s see how we can do business. Bear in mind that I am bound by some fairly draconian confidentiality agreements. As well as professional ethics.”

“Ah yes, professional ethics,” Smith chuckled. “Fair enough, well how about I start with a brief summary of my experiences with the ironically named Church of Transformation?”

Colley listened while Smith detailed his experiences over the next ten minutes or so. Experiences that would have sounded very familiar to escapees from hundreds of different cults. They could be summarised as:

1. Get hooked
2. Join
3. Pay money
4. Fail to receive expected benefits
5. Have doubts
6. Suffer mental and emotional abuse for having doubts
7. Get persuaded to carry on despite one’s better judgement
8. Repeat 3 – 7 incl. (several times)
9. Finally have enough and leave. Acrimoniously.

After he had finished, Colley said, “Well that explains why you left the Church-“

“Cult.” Smith interrupted, firmly.

“Yes, of course,” said Colley. I can see that now. They meet all the definitions of a cult. But it doesn’t explain why you are still interested in them.”

“Smith looked thoughtful, “Well I’m not interested in them, per se, but I want to find answers to what happened that day.”

“That day, being the Hopes Hill attack?”

“Yes!” said Smith emphatically. “I take it you did some research? Well I can assure you whatever you think you know, it is only a small part of the story and half of it is completely wrong.”

“But still,” said Colley, “It was very terrible and all that, but from what you said, you weren’t exactly friends with those guys. Why do you care what happened to them?”

Smith gave him a long hard look before looking very pensive. “OK, I see that I’m going to have to show you.”

They got into Smith’s car - a nearly new Audi eTron, Colley noted - and drove a handful of miles along country lanes. Then, as they passed a high stone wall, punctuated by an elaborate gated entrance covered with barbed wire and ‘Keep Out’ signs, Smith gestured, “That is- was, the main entrance. All locked up and the whole site is empty now, of course. The parking for the memorial is just around the corner.” They continued down the narrow tree-lined road with a stone wall (now fronted by security fencing) bordering what was once a grand country estate and then past another, slightly less grand entrance with an attached gatehouse (‘South Lodge’ according to Smith).

“I wanted to show you the layout,” said Smith “and it is relevant later, as you will see.”

They turned right at a small green and then right again a couple of hundred yards later, past a sign which said ‘Hopes Hill Memorial’ and parked in the surprisingly large and newly-surfaced car park. After short walk between some low tress and over a bridge across a stream, they came to the edge of a parkland area. In front of them, covering the hill opposite, were hundreds upon hundreds of stainless steel pillars.

Smith pointed, “Two thousand, two hundred and seventy eight markers. One for every person known to have died.”

They continued up the hill and Smith pointed to one of the pillars, “This is inscribed with the name ‘Jason Fisher’. He joined around the same time I did back in the late 80s. But unlike me, he never left. It cost him his life. There must be a couple of hundred other people I knew personally, on this hill.”

At the top of the hill, the ground levelled out and they walked across closely-mown grass up to a simple stone monument with a carved bas-relief face depicting doves taking flight towards the stars and the bottom, the date – 20.10.2023 and the words, “We remember”.

Smith stood next to the monument and said, “This was the epicentre of the blast. It has been filled in now obviously, but it left a crater over 130 ft wide and about 13 deep.” He pointed to a large, partially demolished building around 150 yards away. “You can see what the blast and subsequent fire did to the castle. The Transformers spent more than ten million on building that and now it is a ruin. Actually, there has been some discussion about whether it should stand as an additional memorial or be knocked down. My vote is for every trace of what they built to be removed from this place.”

He then pointed to the many low trees and occasional more mature examples surrounding the site. “There used to be over a hundred fully-grown trees surrounding this field. But most got either burned or were cut down during the search.”

“Search?” Colley inquired.

“Body parts,” said Smith matter-of-factly. “Every bit of undergrowth for over 400 yards had to be cleared and checked. See that pond down the hill? Well, it is at least 350 yards from the epicentre. When it was drained, they found a torso and an unrelated leg in there. Probably never find all the bits. We are well over half a mile from the road and yet several chunks of metal were found by the main entrance.”

Colley just stood in silence, attempting to visualize the enormity of what had happened here.

As they walked back down the hill, Smith stopped next to a large oak tree and said, “I and several other protestors were heading up the hill on that night. Not quite sure what we were going to do when we got to the top. But some of the other guys wanted to get in the cult’s faces, so to speak. I was the only local and had done some previous reccies and worked out the best cross-country route, so I was leading everyone. We were using the terrain as cover to try and get close to the security perimeter when I spotted a security guard. We quickly ducked into this hollow behind the tree and hid for a few minutes to make sure we hadn’t been spotted. As it happened, that was very lucky for us - probably saved us from serious injury or even death. My ears were ringing for a day or two after, but that was the least of our worries. I was just thinking about popping my head up to see if the coast was clear when the blast went off.”

“I was wearing a GoPro, so captured what happened next but I couldn’t even look at the video for nearly three years. Suffice to say, what happened here was a rather traumatic experience. We were pretty dazed for a good few seconds, but fortunately one of the other guys had combat experience in Afghanistan and got us all moving up the hill. I couldn’t hear very much because of this terrible roaring in my ears, which was a very good thing as it turned out. Anyway, we managed to pull some of the survivors away from the fires and tied tourniquets on arms and legs, but there wasn’t much we could do for most of the victims. Strange how your sense of time goes completely in that kind of situation. Without looking at the video footage, I couldn’t have told you how long we were there – 1 hour or 24. Fortunately, the first ambulances and fire engines arrived very quickly - there are stations for both just a couple of miles away. They were completely overwhelmed, of course and then more eventually arrived from all over the place and at least 4 air ambulances turned up. We finally left around 5am.”

Smith fell silent for a minute or two, and gazed at some indeterminate point in the distance. Colley wondered if he should say something, but then Smith appeared to regain his focus and they walked back to the carpark.

When they got back to the car, Smith asked Colley, “Do you understand now?”

* * *​